


I Get Along Without You Very Well

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, Other: See Story Notes, Pre-Slash, Romance, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post TBbBS, Jim writes a letter to Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Get Along Without You Very Well

## I Get Along Without You Very Well

by Kitipurr

The characters in this work are the intellectual property of Pet Fly Productions.   
My use of them is not meant to infringe upon their copyrights or profits. I make no money from this work. Actually, I make no money from my real job either, so there's no point in suing me unless you want my cats. They're not very loyal, they'd probably go with you depending on the offer.

A second 'first attempt'. Again, no net, no beta, no kidding. Feedback sincerely appreciated. R for language. No actual sex occured in the filming of this. wait, never mind.

Episodes: Switchman, Siege, Cypher, Rogue, Love&Guns, Flight, The Rig, Blind Man's Bluff, Light My Fire, Secret, Warriors, Mirror Image, Sweet Science, Remembrence, Love Kills, Crossroads, Neigborhood Watch, NightShift, SentToo, Murder101, TSbBS,

* * *

I Get Along Without You Very Well 

I get along without you very well  
Of course I do  
Except when soft rains fall  
And drip from leaves, then I recall  
The thrill of being sheltered in your arms Of course I do  
But I get along without you very well 

* * *

Dear Blair, 

It's been six months now, buddy. Where are you? No letters, no postcards, just the occasional call to the loft's answering machine when you know I'll be at the station. You say you're doing okay, but you don't give specifics. I've tried to reach Naomi, but the one time I did she said she hadn't been in contact with you and didn't know you'd left Cascade. Left me. And then she spent the next seven dollars of my phone bill trying to apologize for fucking up our lives. 

But that's kind of the problem, isn't it? She really, in the end, only fucked up your life. Because you fixed mine. All fine, all better, back to normal, no Sentinel. Five minutes in front of the vultures known as the press and bam, you're a fraud and I'm back to normal. I'm doing okay. Fine. Acceptably adequate. I'm healthy and not suicidal this week, and I'm not a complete basket case (though sometimes I really want to be) and I'm plodding along with my life like you told me to, and I'm 'keepin'on keepin'on' and all that. I'm doing just what you asked - going about the life that you gave up everything in yours to ensure I would still have. 

Did I even say thank you? I remember giving you all sorts of platitudes - best cop I've ever worked with, best partner, great friend, yadda yadda... but did I actually say 'Thank you, Blair, for giving up everything you've dreamed about to let me be just another average Joe Shmoe on the street?' Sure, I worked the red tape with Simon to offer you a real badge, a paid position at my side. But I don't remember ever saying those two little, very important words. 

That damn badge. I should have known from the start you'd never accept it - hell, your mother even laughed at the idea when we told her, but she agreed that at least we could make the offer, let you know we wanted you. I think she finally really understood what you mean to me, what I mean to you... I mean, you gave up your career for me, and I pulled out all the stops to give you a way to stay with me, if you wanted to... but you're just too damn smart to be a cop, you know? No, I'm not insulting my own intelligence, or Simon's, or any of the other guys at the station - we're hardly dumb-asses, you know? But you... 

Did you know I found out about your Mensa membership? I stopped by the U one day - just 'cuz - thinking we could do lunch, and Janice said you'd been called into an emergency staff meeting regarding some cheating scandal with the basketball team - I never really learned what it was all about - but I went to leave a note on your desk just letting you know I'd stopped by, and I saw the letter on your desk. I shouldn't have pried, I know - hell, if you'd wanted me to know you were in the top fifteen percent of Mensa members, you'd have told me, right? But I couldn't help it; I read the letter. All about how they missed you at some conference and would be sending you copies of the meeting notes and all that... I was amazed to realize just how smart you really are. 

I did some research on you. Since you've been gone, I... I needed to stay connected to you in some way, so being a cop, I did the 'cop' thing - I worked up a complete profile on you. Researched you down to when you lost your baby teeth and what was your favorite stuffed animal when you were four. Okay, I wasn't THAT successful, but I sure as hell tried to learn everything. Given, getting info on you prior to when you started Rainier at sixteen is damn hard, you know? Naomi really did drag you all over the globe. 

Funny how it took your encounters with Alex Barnes and Brad Ventriss, and then seeing that letter, for me to realize that in three and a half years with you, I'd learned all sorts of trivia about your life, but never really asked about you in detail. I never BOTHERED to ask. I sometimes wish I'd asked more... maybe you'd have told me about being in three different schools for sixth grade alone. God, that must have been so hard. I mean, being the new kid is never easy, but you were the new kid three times in a nine-month span. A total of twenty times from kindergarten through your early graduation at sixteen. That blows my mind, Chief. 

Once at Rainier, things get a little easier to track, and a hell of a lot more impressive. Deans List and Honors Clubs every semester, summer excursions to Africa, South America, Japan, China, Siberia... Even with all your stories, I had no idea. I didn't know you'd gotten your Bachelors by twenty, or that it was actually three degrees and two minors. God, did you actually sleep? Anthropology, Social Studies and South American History, with minors in Psychology and Spanish literature. Then a Masters in Anthropology by twenty-three, and working on your doctorate when I met you at twenty-seven. Over two hundred various articles and studies published in fourteen different journals in the various fields of your study... god, to think we stupid cops ever cracked wise about... well, anything about you. 

Simon told me about him razing you after that whole 'family' undercover thing with Megan and the neighborhood gun squad, picking on you about acting as our therapist, teasing you about going back to night school... kid, you should have just SAID you already had the damn psych degree! But then, modesty has always been your strong suite, hasn't it? I mean, when we were dealing with the Chopec going after the Cyclops execs and Simon was badgering me about my mental health, he really cut into you about whether you were qualified to help me straighten my head out. Instead of telling him you had a Bachelors of Psych, you told him you'd 'taken a few classes'. Shit, Chief, I took a few classes; YOU submitted three studies to the Journal of American Psychological Research, one of which won a goddamn award! 

How did I not realize in the last three years you were so fucking brilliant? That I should have been thanking my lucky stars that you would even deem to breath the same air as me, much less willing to help me with these damn senses, willing to share my home and life, give me your time at the station and on the job... I know I didn't bitch too much when you didn't managed to come up with the measly two hundred a month we agreed on for rent, but there was a tiny part of my caveman brain which fixated on that. I mean, you were scraping up eight hundred a month for rent on that damn warehouse, right? So of course my petty self tucked that away for ammo somewhere down the road. 

How did I know that you were using the money you 'saved' in rent from the warehouse to help Naomi pay off your grandmother's medical bills? And no, your mother didn't tell me - I found out all by my little old self. Damn, Chief, you could have told me - she's your grandmother. I would have waved the rent entirely. God knows I didn't need the money. It was just one of those 'matter of principle' things I used to drive you nuts with - like my being a clean freak, or being a stickler about not lending you the truck unless there was absolutely no other way. 

And yet you still came up with the money for flying to Peru to help Simon and Daryl. Of course, I now know you maxed your credit card for that trip and spent six months working nights at the Coffee Barn to cover the expense. You told me you were on dates. Oh, yeah, Samantha coughed up the whole cover story you got her to cop to - turns out she's not the volatile bitch I always thought she was, huh? She said you dated a couple of times after the singed eyebrows she gave you in the lab, and then the two of you called it quits to be just friends, but you still told me you were seeing her whenever you needed a cover story, and she was only too happy to help out. Another one wrapped securely around your finger, huh, Chief? 

And I was busy being petty about you paying your half of the electricity when I knew you were a hell of a lot better at conserving it than me - hell, my bills went down after you moved in, rather than up. And the water bill barely budged, but I still charged you half - that wasn't fair either. Of course, you won the argument about the gas heat, and I conceded - it wasn't fair to ask you to chip in when I like it cold, and we always kept the temperature the same as it would have been whether you lived here or not - but I certainly was a shmuck about it, wasn't I? 

* * *

I've forgotten you just like I should  
Of course I have  
Except to hear your name  
Or someone's laugh that is the same  
But I've forgotten you just like I should 

* * *

The guys at the station ask about you all the time, Chief. Sometimes I actually make stuff up to tell them, because I don't want them to know the truth. That you left because I fucked up so royally and didn't let you know how much you really mean to me, how very important you are to me. How can I tell them that I don't even know where you are? 

So, when you get back from wherever you are, you're going to have to make sure stories about being in Argentina and Brazil are part of your repertoire. I told them you got a grant to participate in a culture study of jungle tribes in the rain forest, and you and I agreed that it was far too important a study to pass up. I just couldn't confess that I came home one day after work and found that damn note of yours telling me you couldn't deal with all the animosity you were receiving the general public and the cops who aren't part of MC, and so you were going to 'get out of my hair for a while till things chilled out'. 

Did you know I didn't even realize for almost two hours that you were gone? Your note had slipped off the coffee table and I didn't see it until I went to watch the Jags game. I was home for two hours before I found out that you weren't living there anymore. 

Suddenly I wasn't home anymore. 

Of course, I'm a little pissed at you for telling me in a fucking note, kid. You couldn't face me, huh? Couldn't tell me to my big ugly mug that you were grateful for the job offer, but no thanks, not your style, and you were skipping town to let the heat die out from your mother's wonderful attempt at hands-on parenting. Left me to explain that to Simon all by myself. Thanks so much for that, Chief. If I'm mad at you at all about your taking off, it's about that. How you did it, leaving me holding the bag. 

I'll tell you though, Simon wasn't really surprised when I handed him your badge and credentials and told him you'd decided it wasn't your cup of lemon-ginseng. He was a little surprised that I was the one telling him that - I think a little hurt, really - but I spit up the story I'd fabricated about a sudden expedition opportunity in South America and you not having the time before flying off... I think he bought it. I'm not really sure, but he at least had the compassion not to grill me for details I'd have had to make up on the spot. 

Okay, it really isn't fair to dump on you. God knows, you've been dumped on enough. And mostly by me. Ever since I read the intro chapter to your diss, after you explicitly asked me not to. No, actually, before that - since Roy's murder, things have been kind of shitty for you, haven't they? I mean, losing Roy was rough for you and I was my usual unsupportive self. Then the whole thing with my dad - even after, I wasn't exactly nice about things, and did I ever even introduce you to my dad? You watched over him when I asked, and I didn't think I ever said 'Hey Dad, this is Blair, he's my whole life.' I told you to go home, that I was going to dinner with the old man. You were so supportive of me trying to work things out with him, and I just shut you out. 

Oh yeah, then comes Lila, and I learn a woman I've been pining for since before Carolyn is actually a trained assassin, and you were there for me the whole time, through her death and everything, and what do I do? Tell you I want to take a week's vacation alone and not give you an explanation. I know you and Simon really followed me because you were concerned about me, despite the 'male-bonding-bullshit' about me holding out on you about a really great fishing hole. 

And I know you probably didn't think I knew, but I really did see the pain in your face when I complained that I never got any alone time anymore. I wasn't lying, but I didn't mean it the way it came out, and I should have tried to apologize better. I guess I was just feeling claustrophobic with everything that had been happening - Dad, then Lila - and I just wanted some space. But I didn't have to be such a jerk about it. 

It really freaked me out when you fell sick up there. I'm sure I did my best not to let you know, but Simon told me later he saw it in my eyes for the first time then - I really panicked, Chief. Some unnamed bio-terror, and you struck down by it... god, I was so afraid. I flashed back to Lash, and Brackett holding a gun to your head, and the hatchett-weilding loony in Carasco's greenhouse... how many other situations have I gotten you into where you're life was at stake, Chief? 

How about the oilrig when you were seconds from being blown to bits and I was all nice and safe on shore because YOU got me through the swim? How about the Golden overdose, which you'd never have been exposed to if you hadn't been working at the station with me? How about those two goons of Colonel Oliver's who tried to kill you just because you lived with me? How about Warren Chappell because I agreed to send you undercover - no, not just agreed, but actually talked Simon into agreeing to it? 

Hell, how about Garrett Kincaid on the first fucking day? No wait, he was just your first official day - I guess Veronica Sarris would be the actual first time I put your life in danger. Wait, does the garbage truck count? Damn, from day one, Chief. And you stuck with me. All those incredibly active, incredibly brilliant cells of gray matter, and you still chose to stick with me. Because you wanted to help me. 

Yeah, you wanted to study me - considering your entire life is a giant term paper, I shouldn't even consider that an issue. But with all the studying, your main goal was ALWAYS first and foremost to help me. I was always tops on your list - from helping me choose the right detergent to lower skin irritants, helping me shop for shampoo and conditioner and lotion and shaving cream and razors and clothes, for god sakes... You pestered me about my diet not just for my enjoyment taste wise, but for my health. 

Blair, you were the first person in my entire life to ever care about what I ate in terms of my health. Even Sally growing up - with her it was just a matter of getting as much food into me as possible, regardless of what it was. If I wanted ice cream instead of Brussels sprouts, fine, as long as I was eating. Growing boy, you know. Lucky for my health as a kid, I was never too much into sweets, or I might have been the chubby kid instead of the football player. No one has ever cared about my sugar intake or my cholesterol levels or how much fat or grease I ate, but you did. 

And that had nothing to do with the Sentinel crap. That was you caring about me as a friend. Teaching me to make the foods I really loved in a healthier way, finding me the restaurants that make Mexican or Italian or German foods that also qualify as healthy. Ostrich chili, Chief. That says it all to me. Oh, and the fact that even though it contains no nutritional value at all, there always seemed to be a pint or two of Rocky Road Hagen Daz in the icebox, just because you know it's one of my ultimate, passionate weaknesses. 

God, I miss you, Chief. I've taken to sleeping in your bedroom sometimes when I'm really feeling low in the hopes that it will be the night you decide to slip back into my life, and when you turn on the light you'll wake me and I'll get to see you the very minute you're back. I've borrowed some of your sweatshirts that you left behind - uh, they're kind of stretched out now, but I'll be happy to replace them when you get back. And I've been buying tongue and I asked Naomi for the recipe you like, and I've been practicing, so I can make it for you your first night home. 

And I've been listening to your CDs lately instead of my own. You know, I never really looked through your collection before. I'm not even remotely surprised to realize you have an incredibly diverse listening library - besides all the weird tribal stuff, there's classical, jazz, rock, pop, country, rap... okay, the Brittany Spears CD threw me a little, and when Rafe gave me back the Best of Alan Parsons I almost denied the possibility that it was yours... But then I started going through every CD you left here, one at a time, opening myself to new experiences. I'm almost done, but I know you have an equally, if not more, impressive cassette collection, and I'm going to start on those next. Gotta say, you've introduced me to artists I'd never even heard of - Diana Krall, Billy Stritch, Barbara Bailey Hutchison, The Tonics. 

And I finally listened to the Tom Wopat CD you asked for Christmas last year - the one I bought you but made so much fun of because you wanted a record by Luke Duke (I'm glad I didn't know at the time that you had a number of his country albums and the two John Schneider CDs). Gotta tell ya, I'm still not big on the whole country thing, but Wopat's jazz CD - okay, now I understand why you wanted it. It's really good. Except, I can't listen to it, Blair. Every song reminds me of you, of me and my screw-ups, of missing you in my life. God, I always made fun of people who cried listening to music, but now I get it. And you know what's the worst? 

I've realized I'm in love with you. Yeah, you read right, I'm in love with you, you short, dweeby, dorky, science nerdy, near-sighted, hairy table-leg humper. Process that, Einstein. I'm fucking in love with you. 

* * *

What a guy  
What a fool am I  
To think my breaking heart could kid the moon What's in store?  
Should I 'phone once more?  
No, it's best that I stick to my tune 

* * *

So, let me ask you something. When exactly did you make me fall in love with you, huh? And just how did you accomplish this? I'm almost your complete opposite in a lot of ways. You're so free and full of life and able to relate to just about anybody in seconds, and so open and wonderfully amazing in so many ways. Nearly everybody who meets you instantly adores you, or if they don't you win them over (if they're a human worthy of the two bucks worth of chemicals to make their sorry-ass bodies). Yeah, you have a lot of short-term relationships, but almost everyone you break up with ends up being your friend. 

Me? I'm a neat freak, anal to the core. I have issues with intimacy up the wazzoo, am not exactly known for my people skills, am cynical and suspicious of everyone, hate having people get too close, hate getting too dependant on people. I have a running train wreck of a love life: one crash-and-burn marriage, and all recent potential mates have usually either been criminals or died on me (or both). And let's face it, people who get close to me almost inevitably end up running out on me. Hell, I drive them away in droves, don't I? 

Yeah, I can hear you now - Jim, what about Simon? He's your best friend and has stuck with you through thick and thin. Well, yeah, but he's also my boss, so where is he going to go, exactly? Carolyn and I may still be friends, but since she moved to San Francisco and she started seeing Allan, we just don't talk much anymore; personally I think Allan's a little insecure about his girlfriend being friends with her ex. Stephen? Well, yeah, he's back in the picture, but we're doing a diligent once-a-month brotherly bonding night which is usually thick with small talk and very little real bonding; we're like two complete strangers. 

I overheard Elaine on the phone with her mother the last time we went out, while I was waiting for Steve to say goodnight to Bethy - she said the Ellison brothers are about as familial as the leaders of two warring countries at a peace talk: we put on the right face and say the right things, but we just don't know how to react to each other. To be honest, Steve seems more at ease with you than me. And while I love getting to know my niece, it seems weird to be on better terms with a five year old than the man I grew up with. 

Dad? Not even going to go there. We may be on speaking terms again, but we make a valiant effort not to discuss anything heavier than the sports section or the weather. I'm not really surprised; if I'm having such a hard time working things out with Steven, can't really expect things with Dad will go any faster. Hell, my goal with Dad is that we maybe can have an in-depth conversation about my childhood without it turning into a shouting match. My end date on that goal is sometime before the twenty-second century. 

And then there's you. You know, it's actually funny. For all the shit I've given you, for all the pushing around and pushing away I've done since that first day in the hospital, I always thought... well, I don't know if I even thought about it. I've just believed you'd always be here. Selfish, huh? You, brilliant doctoral candidate, teacher, student, assistant, researcher... You became my roommate and partner, and then my friend. My best friend. EVER. I never imagined for some reason that you would follow the same pattern as everyone else who's every wandered through my life. 

Which it quite the revelation, considering I did my damnest to keep you at arms length. Yeah, I really do love you, which maybe is where I made the mistake. I fell in love with you, and you left me. Maybe it's a curse I have - if I love someone, they leave. Does that mean I don't love Simon? I thought I did - not THAT way, maybe, but he's been my boss and best friend for how many years now? 

But he's still here. 

Maybe you're only allowed one exception to the curse rule. 

In which case, I'd like to trade. I don't know who I ask or how I going about putting in the requisition... You see, Blair, I do care for Simon as a brother, but I love you. I love you. I LOVE you. Really big letters. LOVE. Am in love with you, want to spend every second of every day for the rest of my pathetic, unexceptional life with you. And don't give me any shit about me being a Sentinel and therefore can't be unexceptional, because with both know that the Sentinel thing is just a special Jim Ellison bonus. Just a little talent I have. Like being able to play the piano really well or draw better than stick figure. Or Brown's ability to revive even the most almost-dead plant. Or Megan's way with children. 

Did I tell you she and Rafe have been dating? Maybe that's not something you want to know - I know you and Rafe were an item for a while. You two are the worst poker players when it comes to your hearts, Chief. The entire department knew. Taggert loved it - he loves you like one of his sons, and he thought Brian was great for you. Brown was just giddy about you and Rafe, though I think it threw him at first - he didn't realize you were bi. He knew Rafe was, since Rafe announced it at lunch on their first day together, but apparently H only kept track of the women you dated. Which means he missed Rodriguez in Finance, Carpenter on Beat Desk, Rogery and Barrett from Vice, Lansing in Dispatch... yeah, I kept track, Chief. 

But back to you dating Rafe: Rhonda was jealous of both of you - it was really kind of funny. Simon, Joel and I have decided we HAVE to get that woman a boyfriend, Chief, she's got just WAY too much time on her hands worrying about who's dating who, whose marriage is hitting the rocks, etc. I don't get it - she's pretty, smart, funny... why doesn't she date more? Simon wants to set her up with Dreyfus from Homicide, but I was thinking more Louisan in the Trace Lab. Of course, with you not here, we're just doing the best we can. When you get back, we really could use the Master's help on this one. After all, of the sixteen pairings you've set up on dates, eleven are married and another three are engaged, while the fifteenth couple is still steadily dating. Only H and Teresa didn't cut it, and hell, this is H we're talking. I don't think there's a woman patient enough who isn't in a coma. 

Simon wasn't sure what to think you and Rafe - both you guys being bi and that you were dating each other - but he was happy that you were happy. Simon will never admit it unless under duress, but he really likes you, thinks of you as one of 'his people'. He likes it when you're happy, hates it when you're suffering. I get lectured every time he thinks I'm causing you trouble, believe it or not. I'm kind of surprised he hasn't ripped into me about you taking off this time, but then, he hasn't denied that he believes the bullshit story I fed him and the rest of the gang, so maybe that's why I've been spared for now. If he knew I didn't know where you were... well, there might not be anything left of me for you to come home to, buddy. 

And we're back to that. You. Coming Home. PLEASE come home, Chief. I miss you so much my whole being aches. My chest has felt hollow since the moment I read your note. I'm so lonely without you, I can't even say how much. Funny how everybody's been really great about trying to keep me company, and I've been going along to keep up appearances. Everyone can tell how much I miss you, but they don't know how much I hurt, Blair. I know what despair feels like, Chief. Knowing you ran away from me and may never come back. Knowing I managed to drive you away. Of all the people I've chased out of my life, you were the biggest mistake of them all. If I'd just been watching you... really watching... maybe I would have seen the signs and known to handcuff you to your desk until I could make things right for you. 

Of course, that's part of the problem, isn't it? I can't make this right. Not any of it. There is nothing I can do to give you back everything you sacrificed for me. If I go public with the Sentinel, it will look like I'm trying to salvage your career by lying, and if I prove it, I'm endangering myself, the people around me, and the citizens of Cascade. I'm not so noble as to think I can do what you did and things will work out for the majority of the people of the world. We already know that, don't we? 

So, there's nothing I can do. Except tell you how much I love you, and want you and need you in my life. Tell you how much I miss you, how much Simon misses you, and the whole gang at the bullpen. Tell you that I want to take you in my arms and hold you and make love to you and somehow try to make things right for you. I would ask Stephen to use his influence at Rainier - after all, now that Steve's taken over for Dad at the corp, he's got a little more muscle to flex. Hell, I would get down on my knees and beg DAD to use his influence, even though it would give me a bigger ulcer than any psycho-criminal in this city ever has. I don't know what to ask them to ask for, though, so you'll have to tell me, okay? 

* * *

I get along without you very well  
Of course I do  
Except perhaps in spring  
But I should never think of spring  
For that would surely break my heart in two. 

* * *

Which means you have to come home. I won't ask any questions, I won't rag on you for leaving or ask where you've been, or pester you about any of it. I just want you home, Chief. I need you home. I need to hear your heartbeat when I get up in the morning, I need to unclog the drain of your hair, to spend time trying to figure out if the stuff in your Tupperware dishes is a food or an experiment. I need to see that weird organic beer in the frig - you know, the stuff that only keeps for a week? I need to find your wet towels on the bathroom floor and smell the bathroom when you've forgotten to use the spray. I need to hear you ticking away at your computer at three a.m. when you're inspired about something, and I need to hear you lecture me about my bad habits - any of them, all of them, whatever you want. 

I love you so much, Blair. I need you. Not because of the Sentinel stuff. Because I need YOU. The 'you' part of you that everyone gets to share in, because you give it so freely. I need you in my life, Chief. Please come home. 

Please. 

Love, Jim 

* * *

Blair set the letter down on the stack of unmailed envelopes and looked at the stairs that led to Jim's bedroom. He had used a white noise generator when he'd entered the apartment, so he wouldn't disturb the sleeping detective, and he had used only the light from the full moon as it poured through the balcony windows to see by. It was simply mere chance that he'd decided to get a bottle of water and seen the envelopes on the counter next to the frig door. Fifteen envelopes, all with his name on them. In Jim's handwriting. 

And no address. Jim hadn't had one to put on them. 

He'd stood in the light of the refrigerator bulb for about an hour now, reading each of the letters Jim had written him in the last six months. The first letters had been cheerfully filled with the latest gossip or goings on around the PD, a few tidbits from the university that Jim had gotten when he'd run into some of Blair's friends around town or when one had tried to call to check on the former professor. Around letter eight, they had become more personal as Jim had begun trying to coax the absent and uncontactable anthropologist into coming home. At first subtle, then cajoling... and then this last one. 

With its revelations. 

Blair gazed toward the stairs with his heart in his throat. For six months he'd traveled around, dropping in on friends all over the country, begging for shelter and food, working the occasional odd jobs to try to pick up extra cash as he ran through his paltry savings while he tried to figure out what was going on in his head. The aftermath of the dissertation fiasco had left him reeling, with suddenly no job, no school, no anticipation of his doctorate and all the plans that hinged on those three little letters... and the offer of a policeman's badge that he didn't want. Not that he didn't appreciate the offer - and he did SO want to continue working with Jim - but if he was completely honest with himself, the prospect of spending his life carrying a gun was just not appealing. 

And as he watched his own life unravel, he'd watched as Jim fought and succeeded to pull his life back together. It had pleased Blair that his friend had suffered no permanent harm to his career or his life from the fallout of the publication of his Sentinel studies, but at the same time it had been painful. The balancing of the scales of justice may have been right and good, but it had hurt something fierce. 

So Blair had fallen back on the training of his youth: when things get too tough, too unbearable... go. Move. Travel, flee, fly, get out. Disengage, detach. Coping With the World According to Naomi 101. Note on the coffee table, clean break, no long goodbyes, no promises to keep in touch. 

But he hadn't. Not entirely. Sure, he'd left. Split in the middle of the day when Jim wouldn't be around to stop him or confront him. But he hadn't been able to leave it alone. He'd managed to keep from writing, not wanting to give Jim a postmark to track down. And he'd made sure not to use his credit card, remembering how Simon had used Jim's to find him in Clayton Falls: standard fugitive tracking procedures. 

But he'd been unable to keep himself from calling. More to hear Jim's voice on the answering machine than anything, and he'd felt obligated to leave a brief message every time - just to let Jim know not to worry, that he was doing fine. But in doing so, he proved to himself every time that he couldn't detach. Not this time. 

So, after a few weeks working on a tree farm in Michigan's upper peninsula, he'd finally decided to trek back across the northern states to Cascade. To Jim. To home. Why he wasn't sure, but he'd finally realized it was what he needed to do. 

And now he knew why he'd felt the calling to come back. 

His heart had never left. It had stayed in the loft apartment on Prospect Avenue. With a six foot two, balding ex-Army Ranger as its guardian. 

Blair closed the frig door and shut off the white noise generator, then removed his sneakers and headed for the stairs. He climbed them slowly, trying not to make too much noise. He just wanted to see the face in his dreams - the face of the man who owned his soul. He reached the top of the stairs and looked down at the lump under the lemon yellow comforter. He felt his heart leap as the lump moved slightly, Jim shifting in his sleep. 

He didn't remember moving to the side of the bed, didn't remember sitting. He only knew that suddenly he was reaching out to touch the sleeping face, needing to connect. At the gentle brush of his fingertips against Jim's cheek, the older man stirred and froze. The usual sleeping mask kept Blair from his sight, but the Sentinel's nose twitched and his mouth opened slightly to taste the air around him. Jim's left hand tentatively moved up to meet the hand on his cheek, touching hesitantly, warily as if afraid he was dreaming. 

"Blair..." Jim whispered hoarsely, the hope and fear mingling in his tone. Blair found himself smiling. 

"Jim." Jim's right hand reached up to pull off the sleeping mask and light blue eyes met dark, questions asked and answered without words. 

"You're really here?" 

"Yeah, I am." Blair caressed Jim's cheek lightly as Jim kept perfectly still, drinking in the sight of his beloved, soaking it up like a sponge. Blair's eyes moved over Jim's face carefully, glowing in the dim light. "I got your letters." Jim frowned. 

"But... I didn't mail them." 

"I go them anyway." Blair stopped his caressing and took Jim's hand firmly in his own. "Jim... can I come home?" 

Jim smiled brightly, understanding the full nature of the question. "Yeah, Chief." He moved over on the bed, and Blair slipped in under the covers, not bothering to remove his jeans and polo shirt. Jim wrapped his arms around his love, holding tightly as Blair snuggled his head into the bigger man's chest. 

"Good night, Jim," a small voice whispered into the dark. Jim felt the hole in his heart seal up and the ache vanish from his insides. Three little words that translated into another three-word phrase. Tomorrow they would need to talk some things out, but for tonight, all was right with the world. 

"I love you too, Blair." 

@@@@@ 

"I Get Along Without You Very Well"  
music and words by Hoagy Carmichael  
inspired by a poem by J.B. Thompson 

* * *

End I Get Along Without You Very Well by Kitipurr: meow9x@aol.com

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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